


Talent Shows, and Piano Chords

by sleepygirl0305



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Artist Grantaire, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Pining Enjolras, Singing Enjolras, Talent Shows, based on aaron tveit's performance from like ages ago, eponine is a pianist!, no beta we die like barricade boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:40:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28553259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepygirl0305/pseuds/sleepygirl0305
Summary: Somehow, Courfeyrac convinces Enjolras to hold a talent show as a fundraiser. And then, Combeferre convinces Enjolras to reawaken his old singing talents from high school.And then, Enjolras decides last minute to sing Grantaire's two favorite songs. Because he has no self-preservation.It's...a mess.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 64





	Talent Shows, and Piano Chords

**Author's Note:**

> hello! first, this one is based on aaron tveit's spotify performance of if i loved you and to make you feel my love. it's a beautiful performance, and i highly recommend. second, i really like the characterization of grantaire and enjolras post-growth where they have informed debates rather than getting angry or snippy at each other. it just seems...real you know? and third, we all know enjolras would pine for grantaire like hell.
> 
> lastly, i love cosette. and need to include her more.

Like many things that end in chaos, it’s all Courfeyrac’s idea.

“A TALENT show!” He flourishes with jazz hands. And really, Enjolras loves him. Would sacrifice an arm for him. But proposing a talent show to raise funds for their  _ social justice organization _ is not the brightest of ideas.

“And how exactly are magic tricks and singing going to stop capitalism?” He decided to respond. The other members in their group looked thoughtful, and he did not like those looks. Because that meant they were on the verge of agreeing with Courf’s idea.

“Well, what if we combine a show and an exhibition?” Jehan piped up, “People pay donations where they want, they also pay for food and an entrance fee, all for a good cause. I’m sure people love a good excuse to perform and have fun after midterms.”

Everyone murmured their agreement. Enjolras did not like the sound of that.

“How will people take us seriously? If we entertain people who want to do anything onstage?”

Combeferre met his eyes and said, “I’m sure only people who care about the cause will perform, especially if they know where the donations will go. And to add on, what if we give part of the proceeds to another cause? Like the refugee shelter? It’ll really get people flocking to help. We charge them for an entrance fee, food, and donations where they’re willing. How’s that?”

Well, fair. He couldn’t really find a fair disagreement for that. Their group would do anything to help the refugee shelter.

His eyes found themselves wandering towards the back, where Grantaire sat. The dark-haired man was listening while sketching on a spare piece of paper. Enjolras had been doing that quite a lot lately, eyes wandering to that particular spot, wondering what he thought. This past year or so, he had been giving better and better ideas, straying away from the bitter arguments he used to provoke. He wasn’t sure when he cared about R’s suggestions so much, but once he began, he never stopped.

The artist glanced up, smiling slightly at him and nodded, signaling his approval for the idea.

Enjolras sighed, “Alright. Fine.”

There was a brief cheer in the air (the loudest from Courfeyrac), before he yelled haltingly.

“Wait! But you have to promise it centers the cause, and not the performers! That’s what matters most!”

Joly laughed, “We promise nothing else of importance will happen except caring for the cause.”

Right. 

He sighed and ended the meeting, and his friends walked off into the golden Friday afternoon.

+

A week passed, and preparations were coming together quickly. Over the weekend alone, Jehan, Grantaire, and Eponine sent out invitations, and came back with more than 20 acceptances of different talents. Combeferre booked the Musain with ease. Cosette had volunteered to manage the program and performers (Enjolras had his doubts over this at first, but he remembered that Cosette could terrify a moose if prompted, so he immediately knew the right person was suited for the job). Everyone else either prepared decorations or was on food duty.

Eventually, Enjolras was content with the idea of a talent show. It was a welcome departure of their more serious events, and he realized that it might catch the interest of fellow college students who wanted to dip their feet in the water. 

He also privately told himself that Grantaire would likely show off a painting or a sketch at the exhibition, and begrudgingly admitted he definitely wanted to see it.

It was not until the Friday after the first meeting that Combeferre dropped a bomb that had his mind reeling.

“Have you thought about performing for the talent show?” He had asked over pouring a cup of coffee as they studied in the privacy of their apartment. In a phenomenal show of grace, Enjolras nearly dropped his own mug and only barely saved it with both hands. His palms stung with pain.

His roommate stared at him with an unimpressed look.

“No, I have not.” He said. He didn’t drop the mug out of shock, not really. More so because he had honest-to-god forgotten that he had a talent that he  _ could  _ perform at the talent show. But of course, that didn’t mean he should, “Why do you ask?”

“Why haven’t you thought about it?” Combeferre responded as he returned to his seat, “I think you’d bring the house down. Everyone would love it.”

He huffed a chuckle in reply, “First, I haven’t sang in  _ years.  _ I must be rusty-”

His friend snorted, “Then warm up.”

“You say that as if it were easy. Besides, singing isn’t really my thing anymore.”

“Funny,” Combeferre eyes are drawn to one section of his textbook, “I seem to remember you as our high school’s musical star. You scored the main roles each time. And I also remember one Juilliard School trying to recruit you for their voice program.”

And now Enjolras is spluttering, saying, “Don’t bring that up, that was ages ago. I’ve outgrown singing, and even then, I’d be busy with the progr-”

“Which me and Courfeyrac have completely under control, and Cosette can do the work of 10 people.” He looked up now, with the beginnings of a smile playing at his lips, “Listen, you don’t have to perform. But you have been working on all our other programs. Take this event as an opportunity to sit back and just live in the moment.”

“I can’t possibly…”

“No.” And Enjolras has known him long enough to know the ‘this conversation is over’ voice, “I insist. You’ll run yourself into the ground worrying about every event we do. You don’t have to sing, but just relax.”

Combeferre let a moment pass, “Besides, I think it’ll give all our friends a pleasant surprise. Grantaire, especially.”

He tries to glare at his friend, but the glasses frustratingly served as a good barrier for protection.

+

Still, Enjolras couldn’t let the possibility leave his mind. He found himself humming old notes of songs he used to belt in his high school’s music room, remembering how he liked the warmth and peace he felt in his body after singing.

A day later, he was staring at his phone, debating silently. 

And he thinks, screw it, and reaches out to call Eponine.

“What’s up?” She says when she picks up.

“I have a favor to ask.”

+

And now there was the question of what song to sing. Enjolras had old sheet notes for songs he used to sing for warm-ups and performances, but those felt too outdated and weird.

Panic slowly dawned on him as he realized there was less than a week to the event, and he still had to give Eponine sheet music for her to practice.

His answer comes on Tuesday, when he is sitting with Grantaire under a tree in the quad. This began a while back at the beginning of the semester, when they discovered they had similar free times in the late morning. At first, he didn’t want to spend time with another person to study, seeing as he studied better alone.

Yet, his companion offered easy conversation and interesting debates (different from their spats from a few years ago), and sometimes, Enjolras felt better doing that than sinking his head into another thick book.

“Are you excited for the talent show?” He asks him as they’re catching up.

“Absolutely.” Grantaire’s eyes are sparkling, “I have these two paintings that I really wanted to show and see what people think, and it would be cool to meet other people who are into art, you know?”

He hummed in assent, to which the dark-haired man replied, “How about you?”

“I am. A little nervous for it to get pulled off well,” He said simply.

“You know you never need to worry. Our events are always great.”

They sat in silence for a while after Enjolras said his thanks, enjoying the sun. Finally, the subject of the song choice weighed heavy in his mind, and he said, a little too quickly, “What are your favorite songs?”

Grantaire turned, “Why do you ask?”

Right. He didn’t consider making up a reason, so he said, “No reason.”

The artist angled himself to face Enjolras better, “Hmm. There are two that are on repeat right now. One is the classic  _ To Make You Feel My Love.  _ The Adele version. She sings it so well, you know?”

Enjolras nodded.

“And the other is  _ If I Loved You _ from the musical Carousel. Incredible song. If sung right, it’s a heartbreaker song. Perfect song for a dramatic scene,” Grantaire finished wistfully.

And with that, it was crystal clear as to what song he should sing.

When Grantaire left shortly afterwards, he texted Eponine:

_ I’ll have the sheet music by today. It’s a mash-up of two songs, by the way. I hope that’s okay? _

+

The night of the event, Enjolras walked in, a little awestruck. The Musain was changed thanks to the decor and lighting into a performing space, with a little stage set in the middle in front of the bar. There were wooden panels set to stand for the artworks, and homemade food on the side (a weird combination of tacos, chicken tenders, and fruit salad, which Bahorel insisted would be a hit). People had started filtering in, and Courfeyrac walked up to him to greet.

“You look dashing. And I heard through the grapevine that you’re performing. Is it true?”

“It is,” He admitted begrudgingly, “Combeferre managed to pull at my heartstrings.”

As the event started, people of different talents stepped up and took center stage. At the back, people crowded over visual art works. Enjolras in particular noted a painting by Grantaire: a portrait of a young woman in mid-laugh, eyes as green as its painter’s. He wondered who it was until the artist himself stepped behind him.

“It’s my sister, after I told her a good joke,” He explained, “I wanted to memorize it and hold on to the memory. What do you think?”

“It looks wonderful.” Behind them, there were two slam poets performing in tandem, mesmerizing the audience into cheers and snaps, but at the moment, he only knew the man in front of him.

“Thanks.”

Enjolras quickly checked his watch, and his heart sunk. He had two minutes before it was his turn, “Well. I’ll talk to you later. I’m performing in a little while.”

“Wait, you’re performing?” Grantaire said in response, his hand running through his hair, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“I am. Let’s hope I don’t break the windows with my horrific singing,” He replied grimly.

“I’m sure it won’t be that bad.” 

“Let’s hope.”

A minute later, Enjolras stepped on to the stage to claps, and loud wolf-whistles from his friends (seriously, he was going to kill Courfeyrac). Eponine was seated behind him on the cafe’s piano. 

He wasn’t nervous. Actually, he was totally calm. He was used to performing, whether it be from singing years before, or his speeches in the present day. What he was not prepared for was how the man who suggested the songs would react.

He cleared his throat, “Thank you for being here tonight. I haven’t sung in years, so you’ll have to forgive me.” There were a few chuckles in the audience.

Eponine played the opening chords, hushing everyone. After a moment’s hesitation, he opened his mouth to croon the lines to  _ If I Loved You:  _

_ If I loved you, _

_ Time and again, I would try to say… _

He focused on the words, the turn of notes, and honestly, he felt good as he sang. As if it were a language that gave him access to feelings he had difficulty confessing. To say it to someone he was not sure would reciprocate.

_ Never, never to know how I loved you. _

_ If I loved you. _

Eponine’s chords transitioned, gliding to become the opening chords of  _ To Make You Feel My Love. _ Enjolras was now focused on the words, feeling himself connect.

_ When the rain is blowing in your face, _

_ And the world world is on your case. _

Only about then did his eyes scan the back, falling on the person on his mind. Grantaire’s mouth was open, eyes widened, posture straight. He looked almost as if he wanted to take his hand and have him all to himself. Enjolras felt himself flush at the stare, pleased, but unsure if he was interpreting the situation right.

_ I know you haven’t made your mind up yet, _

_ But I would never do you wrong. _

He closed his eyes, transporting himself to the back of the room, to give the words to R himself.

_ I could make you happy, make your dreams come true. _

_ There is nothing I wouldn’t do. _

_ To make you feel my love. _

The piano faded out. He only opened his eyes as the crowd went wild, applauding and crying out bravos. His friends were all standing, mixed with surprise that their revolutionary friend wound up singing. He smiled at them, remembering his lessons for etiquette after performances.

His eyes, however, kept returning to Grantaire, who wasn’t applauding or cheering. Just staring at him in awe, as if Enjolras was a new sunrise, and he was a man who opened his eyes for the first time.

+

“Why did you never mention you could sing?”

Grantaire’s raspy voice, hoarse from chatting with strangers about his work all night, had cut through Enjolras’ thoughts as he sat on a seat in the balcony dining portion of the Musain. The evening had winded down, and clean-up was mostly done. Now only his friends hung around as they recounted events of that evening, sharing opinions of the performers and the art. The night was a rousing success: they had raised enough money to get them through three upcoming events, and to give a substantial donation to the refugee center.

But none of that seemed to matter at the moment, as Enjolras watched the other man approach him and take another seat. His hair was mussed, and hands shoved into his hoodie to protect from the cool autumn night. 

Enjolras’ heartbeat was pounding, knowing that he must have come to him to ask why he had chosen the songs, what it meant. And if he was being honest to himself, he wanted to tell him why, even it filled him with dread.

He figured he had to answer, so he settled with the truth, “After I began college, I wanted to distance myself from my singing. Felt like it wasn’t really me.”

His friend’s eyes widened, “What? Why?”

He tried to pull memories from the past three years, and placed them into coherent sentences, “One reason was because I worried that no one was going to take my organizing and protesting seriously if I could sing. People in high school used to say I was the pretty boy with a pretty voice, and I wanted to be more than that.” He shrugged, “The other reason being that I thought maybe I had grown out of it. Tonight proved that wrong, though. I forgot how much I liked it.”

“You sounded beautiful,” Grantaire affirmed quietly, “And, maybe it’s just me, but you should start singing again.”

The pounding in his chest roared in his ears, and he knew his cheeks were flushing from the compliment. He was grateful for the night affording some discretion, “Thank you. I’ll think about it.”

There was a silence, and Enjolras could almost swear his heartbeat was louder than the microphone system that evening. Because at any moment now, he’d have to explain his song choices, and he’d have to try to sound convincing and confident. 

He must have spoken in front of hundreds of college students, even more city citizens to encourage them to protest. Words are as easy as waterfalls to him, and eloquence is a second skin.

And yet this one man, with his realistic cynicism and a bursting love for the pencil, with a pair of sparkling green eyes, could render him without his voice.

Finally, the question came as they both stared out into the distance.

“You chose my favorite love songs. The ones I told you.”

He managed to say, “Yes.”

“Why?” Grantaire’s voice was tiny. And Enjolras is really not sure if this is a good thing, or if he’s about to face rejection, and he hates it so much that he’s about to just chuck himself off the short-heighted balcony and make a run for it.

But he wasn’t a coward. He’s faced angry police officers and being kicked by bigots. He’s been kicked out of home for his intentions to become a civil rights attorney. He could answer this question.

“I think we both know why, Grantaire.” He slowly said, hoping the words did not betray the fear.

They met eyes again at the same time. 

“Maybe you should clarify and tell me exactly what. Because I would hate,  _ hate _ to do something as stupid as what’s on my mind right now.”

And with that, Enjolras knows exactly what the other man is referring to.

So to answer, and avoid any more words (because he can’t handle anymore, he really can’t), he stands up and crosses over to where Grantaire is sitting. He crouches on his heels so they are eye-to-eye. He clears his throat, and his hand covers the hand on Grantaire’s lap.

And he kisses him, breathing into the other man’s mouth. If he couldn’t say what he wanted, he would show it by trailing kisses across his lips and cheeks. Grantaire gasps at the first kiss, then his free hand flies to Enjolras’ shoulder to steady him. His lips are so soft, and they curl perfectly in ways that have him pulling for more.

There’s a clang, and he feels himself being pulled up as Grantaire stands and very slowly pushes him backwards onto the balcony, kissing him against the brick surface. The fear in his stomach blooms into millions of tiny butterflies fluttering, and he sets a hand to cup a cheek. He slips the other into the hoodie pocket, and it feels perfect.

The man he is kissing is making soft sounds, and at the back of his mind, Enjolras thinks, _I definitely know now that_ _I’m not the only one who can make an audience swoon._

And then they part with a gasp for air, and Grantaire is smiling so wide, and his eyes are crinkling, and Enjolras yearns.

“You have no idea,” he finally managed to say, “how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

“How long?” His dark curls are falling on to his eyes.

“Months,” He rasped, “And you?”

“Years. My god. Years.”

Something about this situation is very funny, because they both crack up at the same time. Both his hands are squeezing Grantaire’s shoulders, finding an anchor. In return, he slips his hands around his waist and tilts his head to meet Enjolras’ forehead in the middle.

“I can’t believe…” Grantaire stammered, “I never thought you’d ever feel the same.”

“You don’t cut yourself enough slack, you know. You are much more brilliant than you think.”

Those damned green eyes are downright luminous, like the shades of trees filtering sunlight, “Well, if you believe it, I better start believing that. I have one request now, though, because we’ve kissed.”

“Oh?” Enjolras thinks he’d do anything for him.

“Sing for me every now and then.”

He kisses him as a yes. There would be time for singing lullabies and love songs to each other. But for now, there will need to be kissing first.

**Author's Note:**

> any feedback is helpful!


End file.
